A Long Recovery
by MayMyShipsNeverSink
Summary: Sherlock goes to the hospital because of yet another drug overdose. This time, though, he's fallen farther than he's actually thought. Not only is Sherlock focused on healing physically and mentally, but also his relationship with his flatmate.


His vision blurred as the needle pushed through his soft flesh, a slow but steady stream of the drug being released into his bloodstream. The drug abuse program that John had enrolled him in was nothing but a childish joke. Telling a hungry person not to eat was about as effective as the thing in general. Not to mention the counsellor was about as interesting as a piece of sliced bread (which was not very interesting to the detective). That very situation had led him here, sitting in a den of iniquity, making his brother a long list of whatever he had taken throughout the day she had been here. He knew very well that soon the very man would be charging in, guns blazing, to take him away.

Sherlock had assumed he would be here sooner, but he knew that this drug ring was farther away and harder to find than the other ones he had been to. In fact, he had never been here before, probably causing Mycroft to look through every single hotspot until he found his younger brother. Still, it was taking longer than expected.

He spared a glanced down at the list once more, picking up the pen to put another tally mark on the _heroine_ column. Sherlock attempted to write down the line, a normally simple task, but he noticed how each mark had gotten clumsier as the days went on.

A sudden rush of dizziness struck him all at one, nausea settling in shortly after. He waited for it to pass, like it had before, yet it seemed to be years passing before him.

Sherlock tried to stand up, to walk it off. It sounded like a good idea to him in his intoxicated mind. As he stood, he stumbled over into a large mound of pillows and blood and dirt covered blankets. He winced when his head began to throb worse than before, painfully so that he went into a drug-induced daze of some sort.

He must have stayed this way for hours. Before he knew it he was drifting off into a pained sleep, most likely to be met with nightmares about… God knows what. Bright lights shone into his half lidded eyes, causing him to wince back with fear and confusion. His world quickly become shrouded in darkness, the tendrils of sleep wrapping him in a cold embrace.

* * *

The dull sound of beeping filled his ears, waking him from his sleep. It felt like it was just a moment, though the inability to move his joints easily told him that he had been still for a very long time. Judging by the way his eyes were sealed shut and mouth dry as the desert, he had been asleep for about 2 weeks. He opened his eyes, the light blinding to him in his tired state. Sherlock brought an aching hand up to cover his eyes momentarily while they adjusted to the new lighting. Once again, they snapped open, scanning the room with curiosity. He had already gotten an idea to where he might be, and he was quite right.

The hospital was a calming light blue, windows at the foot of his bed bringing in the morning light. The sun shone in and lit the place up brightly. His long, dark navy-grey trench coat hung over the end of the cot very neatly folded. Many machines surrounded him, and judging by the dull pain in the back of his hand, there was an IV. His heart rate monitor was close to pushing him over the edge again, for it was so loud and annoying- ringing in his ears, making him nauseous once again.

He could hear people bustling around outside, after all, he was taken to a public hospital. And he most certainly did not wish to be there.

As carefully as he could, he stood, and ripped out the IV with a steady pull. It hurt more than he expected, most likely because it had been in there for so long. He was in a paper gown, which made him worried for many more reasons. On the rare occasion that Mycroft had taken him the hospital, they never took off his clothes or forced him to do so.

His dizziness began to set in again, though he did not succumb to settling back down in the warmth of the bed. Carefully he pulled on his coat, wrapping himself in it to make sure no one saw he was a resident here. Though, of course, he had no shoes or socks to wear, other than the flimsy hospital provided socks with plastic on the bottom.

Sherlock sighed, and looked out the window. He was only on the second floor. This brought on a whole new string of thoughts. The fall wouldn't kill him, of course, but would be very uncomfortable for sure.

As he weighed his options, he didn't hear the door creak open, or the knock prior to that. It was a woman, wearing a nurses uniform, carrying in a new IV bag filled with clear, bubbly liquid.

The man jumped, and turned to look at her with hidden surprise; for his face showed nothing but a blank expression.

"Oh!" She exclaimed, opening the door all the way. "You're awake!- Mr. Holmes! Let me inform the doctor right away, Sir!"

With that she rushed from the room, before Sherlock had a moment to say anything. The whole situation was confusing to him. How long had he been out for for the nurse to be so surprised? Or could it possibly be that that hadn't expected him to wake up?

The questions came in rapid firing in Sherlock's inflated mind. Mycroft must've found him and brought him here. John's fury would be off the charts, that was for sure- not to mention his brother's as well. His thoughts wandered, before he began to wonder if Mycroft had found his list. It was very important to sherlock that someone read it, after all, he had put such hard work into writing down on it.

A doctor rushed in with a examination clipboard. His hair was greying and hairline declining onto midway on his head. His stark green eyes shot into Sherlock like polished emeralds in daylight.

"Sit down, Mr. Holmes. You are in no condition to be standing." His monotone voice told no interest in his patients well being. As defiance, the detective remained standing, pressing against the window sill to keep up his weight. "I see." He huffed and picked up the pen resting on the top of the clipboard. "How are you feeling? Dizzy? Headaches?"

Sherlock disregarded the man's question, glaring at him with a grimace. "Why am I here, doctor?" His voice was so cutting it sent a shiver down the hospital worker's spine.

"Severe drug overdose, Mr. Holmes. Your brother brought you in from a drug ring of sorts, worried about your safety." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled up notebook lined piece of paper, handing it over. "After seeing the list of which contained the drugs you had taken, I understood why."

Sherlock snatched the paper away and ripped it up to shreds, throwing the strands of paper on the floor. If John was he would surely get scolded for his petulant actions.

"You are currently in the East Ward, and under strict watch by order of the government. You cannot leave until they have sent someone to do so." The doctor scribbled something down on the sheet. "Now. Answer my question, Sir. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. How long was I asleep for?"

"Two and a half weeks. Your boyfriend kept coming in everyday to check on you. In fact, he comes usually around, in an hour or so. I'll call him to come in sooner, if possible."

The detective was flabbergasted. "My boyfriend? I have no such thing."

The man quirked an eyebrow and smirked, showing an actual emotion, other than annoyance, for the first time since the beginning of their meeting. "John Watson, Sir."

Sherlock blushed and waved a hand in front of his face. "How much longer until I leave?"

"We assume about a week's time, with much needed bed rest." The man glanced over to the bed then back to Sherlock, as though he was urging him to take a seat or lie down. "Judging by your files you've been here before for similar reasons, so I recommend you cooperate this time."

"What do you mean I always cooperate."

"It says here," he motioned down to the paper, flipping few to glance over. "that you never participated in the aftercare program. Or went to any counselling or group therapy. Even though you signed a paper saying you'd do so."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They were all stupid. The people and the program. You couldn't actually expect me to go someplace like that."

"Well, we at the hospital, and your friends and family, all _expect_ you to make progress, and commit to your treatment. You should too."

"Not my main concern- too boring." Sherlock clasped his hands together in a clapping position and settled them under his chin. "Now, doctor, are we done with questions?"

The man stood up from the chair, placed it back against the wall, as moved to make his way from the room. "Yes, we are."

* * *

Sherlock spent most of the hour looking for cases on his phone, something to take his mind off of the dull hospital room. Luckily they hadn't taken his technology from him. Nothing struck his interest, other than the case of a glow in the dark rabbit. That seemed to pique his interest more than the other ones.

He cursed Mycroft for keeping him here so long, he deserved to be out by now. This might be his punishment- to be confined to a small room for what he thought was to be an eternity.

He was in hell, or, that's what he decided to call it. The hospital room is a concrete pen with a window the size of a biscuit tin lid. It has a stagnant smell, like it's cleaned with plain water instead of disinfectant. The bed sits low to the ground, the frame grey plastic, both sides keeping him trapped in. Sherlock bites his lip. Leaving isn't an option and staying promises to be a slowly unfolding nightmare.

He considers his options greatly- maybe if he played along he would leave sooner. Sherlock sighed, and leaned back on the bed, his head hitting the wall with a thud. Cursing, he rubbed it with his free hand, the one which wasn't holding his iphone.

This whole situation was stupid, he deemed.

A curt knock came from beyond the closed door on the left side of the room. It wasn't a curse or doctor, for they didn;t immediately barge in like they had before. It was a visitor.

"Come in." He said, straightening up to look as powerful as one could be in this situation. He had to convince everyone that he was alright.

The heavy wooden door swung open in a quick motion. John stood in the doorway, his face lighting once he laid eyes on the detective.

"Sherlock!" He ran over, pulling a chair up to his bed side. "Are you alright?"

A slight, unforced smile escaped his lips. "Quite alright, I assure you."

John's expression changed like a switch to enraged, surprising Sherlock. "Do you how bloody worried we were? We spent _days_ looking for you, moron! You nearly died! They thought…" He trailed off, rubbing his hand over his face before continuing, as if he was trying to regain composure. "They thought you weren't going to wake up, Sherlock."

His eyes widened, though he has already thought this a possibility, mainly because of the nurses surprise when she saw him. "Yes, well, I woke up, didn't I?"

"That's not the point!" He rose from his seat in a rage. "You almost died because I couldn't protect you, Sherlock! I'll never forgive myself."

"It's not your fault, John." Sherlock hadn't anticipated this response from the man. He was walking on thin ice now. "Really, it's not."

"No!" He was ardent in his response. "It's my fault, and I'm going to make it right again." His voice rose above the sacred silence that hospital's usually held inside.

"How are you _possibly_ going to make up my actions?"

He paused, only a moment, then continued on his rant. "I don't know, but I am. Mark me, Sherlock Holmes."

With that, he left the heated argument, and the room. It was quiet once again.

There was no logic to the argument, Sherlock decided. This was all just nonsense coming from John, it was in no way his fault. Why didn't he understand. Unless, John truly believed he was the cause of all of this.

No. It wouldn't be john to make things better, it would be himself.


End file.
